


Fuckbuddies and French Toast

by PreludeInZ



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Cuddling, F/M, Fluff, No good sons of bitches who oughtn't be allowed to even have blankets, Romance, prompts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-07
Updated: 2014-11-07
Packaged: 2018-02-24 12:42:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2581802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PreludeInZ/pseuds/PreludeInZ
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two little fluffy prompts that I wrote on an off-day on Tumblr. I do dearly love writing fluff.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lacey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> thisgirllovesherfandoms reblogged this from 1fort-2fort-redfort-blufort and added:  
> Scout and Pauling going out for a walk on a snowy day?
> 
> ghostcouncil answered: By some unholy coincidence, they run into the fried chicken tramp

**(Subtitle - Fuckbuddies)**

They had the East Coast in common. Actually, one of the things they’d talked about most was the fact that they’d grown up practically in each other’s backyards. Pretty much. Granted, Miss Pauling had spent most of the school year at a boarding school in New York, and Scout hadn’t ever lived anywhere with an actual backyard, but still. They compared notes about where they’d spent their summers. Somewhere along the line, their pasts had overlapped, and it was a nice, if slightly melancholy, nostalgia to share between them.

Holding hands, walking back to Miss Pauling’s apartment after a late movie at Teufort’s only theatre, they both laughed shamelessly at New Mexicans, baffled by a mid-February snow.

“Even knowing what I do about the ridiculous, tragic, borderline  _criminal_ stupidity of the residents of this town, it’s really hard not to laugh when they get snowed on.” Across the street, a man who had been slipping and staggering his way home from the bar finally lost the fight with gravity. Miss Pauling had to clap both hands over her mouth and stifle a snort of laughter.

Scout grinned, then prudently moved Miss Pauling to the inner side of the sidewalk, put an arm around her shoulders. “C’mon. There’s barely an inch. This don’t count an’ you know it.”

She giggled. “I think it counts in New Mexico.”

“Y’know it’ll all be gone by morning,” Scout commented, instinctively edging a little further away from the curb, as a snow covered car pulled away from the opposite side of the street. “Holy goddamn. Didn’t wipe his windshield off or anythin’. Christ, the sooner I get you home, the better, it just ain’t safe out here.”

This statement was reinforced as a handful of laughing, rowdy drunks spilled out of a bar a little further up the street. On her own, Miss Pauling would have hunched her shoulders, shoved her hands further into the pockets of her purple peacoat, clenched her fingers around the blackjack she carried as a precaution, scowled, and quickened her pace. Teufort drunks were typically an overly friendly sort. With Scout, she just nestled a little closer.

One of them, a blonde girl, defiantly underdressed for the weather, broke off from the rest of the group, stumbling and laughing and scooping up snow to pelt at her companions. She looked up at the approaching on the sidewalk, and her smile widened, revealing slightly too big teeth. Miss Pauling stopped, a little alarmed. “Heeeeyyy,  _Boston_!”

Well, of course Scout knew people in Teufort. Out of all the Mercs, Scout probably spent most of his downtime in the small city, apparently unperturbed by its roughness and the general demeanor of its citizens. He dropped his arm from Miss Pauling’s shoulder, took her hand instead. “Hey, Lacey.”

“Whatcha  _doin’?”_ Thoroughly unattractive slurring. Just plain thoroughly unattractive. Miss Pauling was pretty. Growing up, Miss Pauling had been a shy, short, awkward girl, pale and nervous, and she’d mostly been raised by nuns, who believed being pretty was sinful. When she’d gotten out on her own, grown up a little and learned to do her hair and wear purple, she discovered that even if her parents had been indifferent about raising a child, they at least had passed on good genes. She had discovered that most of the people in Teufort had weirdly shaped heads. If back home among the debutants she had been expected join the ranks of, she would have been rated fairly low on the ladder, at least out in Teufort, she was easily an eight. This girl was probably a four.

She spoke up, trying not to sound too frosty. “He’s walking me home.”

Lacey giggled, rolled her eyes. Miss Pauling did not care for that. She had narrowed her eyes involuntarily, drawn up all five feet, four inches of her height. Interlaced her fingers with Scout’s. She hadn’t ever been in a relationship that made her feel  _possessive._  The thumb of her free hand stroked the lump of leather wrapped lead in her pocket. She ran through a quick mental checklist:  _I am_   _shorter than she is. That’s fine, I’m probably faster. She is drunk. She has a bottle of something sticking out of her pocket, don’t let her hit you with that. Kick Scout in the shin if he tries to break it up, that’ll hold him off for a minute. Try not to kill her. That would just be petty_.

“Boston, didjoo get a  _ghirlfriend_?”

Scout squeezed Miss Pauling’s fingers at this, grinned. “Yeah.”

Miss Pauling forgot to be murderously jealous for a moment and internally celebrated the fact that this was the first time he’d used “girlfriend” even if indirectly. While her guard was down, Lacey toddled over, punched him in the shoulder. “Aw, an’ lookit, she’s so pretty! Good f’r you!” Then Miss Pauling was then grabbed by the elbow, had an arm linked through hers, and got spun around on the sidewalk, boisterously, by the interloper. “Treat him right, sweetie!” A wet, boozy kiss on her cheek, and a warm whisper in her ear. “Pass that one on from  _me_.” Then a breathy giggle, an arm around her neck as she was pulled in closer. “An’ if you bite him on the nipple, s’gonna yell loud enough t’wake your  _neighbours_. That is a warning  _and_ some  _advice_.”

Maybe she wouldn’t have won that fight after all. As quick as she’d appeared, Lacey was back off down the sidewalk, bottle of rum coming out of her jacket pocket as she cheerfully staggered off after her friends. “G’night, Boston!” she hollered over her shoulder. And then, impossibly, louder, “G’NIGHT BOSTON’S GIRLFRIEND!”

Scout cleared his throat as Miss Pauling composed herself. Her cheeks were flaming red, and she was pretending with all her might it was from the slight nip… _slight chill_ …in the air. “Yeah, so that’s Lacey.”

“ _Friendofyours?”_  Miss Pauling asked, louder than she meant to, still completely flustered in spite of her efforts.

He shrugged, grinned. Put an arm around her shoulder again, kissed the top of her head in the way that he had, the way that made her glad she was short. “Yeah.”

 _Am I a biter? I haven’t ever bitten anybody before, do I want to? Why would I want to? On the lip, a little, sometimes I guess I do that. I think he likes that, he never said otherwise. I’m not even sure if I have neighbours. My apartment is above a funeral parlour. I wonder if I could make him wake the dead_.

They were almost back to her apartment before she realized she’d fallen silent. “Umm.”

It was a nice thing about Scout that he didn’t seem to mind companionable silences with her. She had always assumed that he would chatter nonstop if they ever spent a lot of time together, and it wasn’t to say that he  _didn’t_ , just that he had a quiet side, too. Occasionally. Not often at all, really. Nice when he did, though.

“You guys are out at Badwater tomorrow, right?”

Scout nodded. “I think so. I mean, you’d know better’n me, you always know that stuff better’n I do. I think so.”

The staircase up to her apartment was in an alley beside the funeral home. They had drawn level with it. Her little blue Ford Falcon was parked in the street, covered with newly fallen snow. Pretty. “I have to go out to Badwater to do some water tests tomorrow.”

“Oh, yeah? I’ll maybe see you after ceasefire, then.”

“I could give you a ride.” Wait, that was the second part of the proposition. “I mean, if you came up. Stayed the night. Um. Do you want to come up?” She was blushing again, furiously. “Sorry.”

He stared at her for a few moments, then looked back over his shoulder, back the way they’d walked, footprints vanishing in the snow behind them. It had picked up a bit, it was starting to be snow that a Bostonian could take seriously. “Aw, hell. Did Lacey say somethin’? Sorry, she’s kinda got a mouth on her. I’ll cuss her out next time I see her, she didn’t mean anything by it.”

“Well…n-no. Just. I mean. Well, it would be dumb. I mean, it would be dumb for you to get a ride back out. Now. I mean, it’s nearly midnight. It’s like an hour and a half out to Badwater, and these people don’t know how to drive on snow. You’ll be killed.”

“I’ll be killed if I don’t come up to your apartment.”

This was going poorly. “W-well. I just. Um.” Miss Pauling had dated just two other people, both during the course of her laughably short collegiate career. She had always been awkward, always been shy about things getting serious. She’d had the personal fortitude never to do anything she didn’t want to, but not being willing to cave to that kind of pressure had cost her both relationships. Not that they’d really been worth keeping, but still. This wasn’t an overture she’d ever made.

“Hey.” Scout had a way of saying the word that made her feel a bit less like she was sinking up to her knees in snow and concrete. He had a way of touching her face, brushing a thumb over her lips before kissing her. “Listen. I know I don’t do anything at a pace ain’t likely to break my neck one of these days, but…look, don’t rush anything on my account. I have never been goddamn happier than I am with you. It’s not a race. There ain’t any competition. You won.”

“I won.” She smiled, big, genuine. No longer sinking into the sidewalk, but probably floating a couple inches off the snow. “I won  _you_. That’s what you’re saying. You’re the prize, here.”

He backed up, smirking. Irrepressible, spread his arms, turned a full circle beneath the streetlights, in the glitter of falling snow. Like it was self-explanatory. “What, like I ain’t? Friggin’ catch of the century! C’mon.”

“Come upstairs.”

Scout paused. “Now, I  _did_  mean it, an’ I’m sayin’…”

“I know what you’re saying. Come upstairs. Stay the night. It doesn’t have to be…I mean. You know. Just. Come on.” Miss Pauling feretted through her purse for her keys. “I mean, it’s only a double bed, not, like a queen or anything. I hope you don’t hog the blankets.”


	2. French Toast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> self-lacing-nikes answered: it’s a super chilly night. cuddles ensue
> 
> and
> 
> valoscope said:  
> Hi hi! Do you remember the old “blanket scenario” fics? Where the OTP was trapped in a frozen environment, and forced to snuggle under a single blanket for warmth, for sexual tension reasons? How about one of those for Scout/Pauling? XD

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a bed must be in want of all of the blankets.

However little known the feelings and views such a man on his first entering the bed of another, this truth is so well fixed in his habits and customs, that the shivering and beleaguered secretary for whom the blankets are rightful property is probably fairly justified in getting increasingly pissed off.

Miss Pauling was a light sleeper. An on-again off-again insomniac. Bed was not for sleeping. Bed was for lying awake and thinking about death. It didn’t mean she didn’t  _enjoy_ it. Her bed was soft and cozy and warm, and she had nice pillows and a thick, heavy quilt. Miss Pauling had spent a great deal of her life learning to love being alone with her thoughts. Even if for the first portion of her night, while Scout was still awake to cuddle and touch and talk to, that had been even better than being alone with her thoughts.

They’d caught a late movie, walked back to her apartment. She certainly hadn’t planned on him staying the night, but it seemed silly for him not to. Scout was supposed to be out at Badwater the next morning, and she had to go out that way to perform the annual tests on the water there. It hovered dangerously close to being non-potable, but they could usually fudge the numbers a little. So, she’d give him a ride, and happily. It was a little known fact about Scout that he was a halfway decent cook. Miss Pauling mostly subsisted on burnt toast and instant coffee. She loved that about him, that he could cook. Scout had promised french toast in the morning. Miss Pauling had nearly proposed.

Now she was alone with her thoughts. And she was thinking about how she did not love the fact he hogged blankets. Miss Pauling was pretty sure she couldn’t marry him if he hogged the blankets, even if he could make french toast. Because what was she supposed to do about that. She had fallen asleep after he had, he had been holding her hand. It had been nice, a single point of connection between them, a bridge across her light blue cotton sheets. But that had been hours ago, and all she had left were the sheets. Scout had let go of her hand and cocooned himself up in her blanket. It was February and her radiator was temperamental sometimes. Miss Pauling had woken up cold, with no one holding her hand, and she was starting to shiver.

By nature, she wasn’t a particularly kind person. Sweet, cheerful. She had a ready smile and she was friendly. But kindness had always eluded her, as a natural skill. Kindness she had to work at. Miss Pauling wasn’t sure how to wake someone up, kindly. She tugged at his…at  _her_  blanket. She prodded his shoulder, kissed him on the ear, whispered softly. Was ignored.

Miss Pauling was not particularly kind by nature, and she killed people for a living. And she was cold. She pinched his nose shut and covered his mouth. Survival instinct was a few moments in kicking in, she let him go and scooted back to her side of the bed as he yelled and flailed his way onto the floor. He took the blanket with him. Damn it.

Muffled swearing, then, “… _ow_ , _”_  came from the darkness beyond the edge of the bed. She had snuggled back down in her lonely cotton sheet, as best as she could. Scout sat up and peered at her suspiciously. “Did…did you just try’n kill me?”

"You took all the blankets."

Scout was staring at her. “So you cut off my air supply?”

Miss Pauling pushed herself up, leaned over the edge of the mattress. Tugged at her blanket, still tangled around his torso. “I was cold.”

“ _Still seems like y’might’ve overreacted a bit._ ”

"A bit," she conceded, still trying to get her blanket loose. "Come back, I’m cold."

Scout stood up, wormed out of her blanket. Shook it out, gave her a flat, mildly annoyed stare. “Honey, I am kinda reconsiderin’ about making you breakfast in the morning.”

"But I’m  _cold_. I’ve been cold for like  _two hours_  because you took all my blankets and I couldn’t sleep and I didn’t know how to wake you up.” Probably some of that was lying. But breakfast was at stake.

"Well,  _christ_.” Scout sat back down on the edge of the bed, flung the blanket out in a smooth, practiced motion. There was moonlight through the gap in the curtains covering her bedroom window, she felt a funny little thrill in the pit of her stomach, watching his hands. “There’s better ways t’deal with that. C’mere.”

He had a way of using his hands, little tugs, nudges. She adored his hands. Steering her into the middle of the bed, sliding under the blankets to lie down next to her. How in the world was he so warm all the time? Miss Pauling had terrible circulation in her hands and feet. She worried constantly about her thyroid. She even felt a little bad when she tucked her feet up, brushed against his shins with her toes.

"Jesus! You  _are_ freezing, what the hell. Don’t do that, don’t lie awake an’ freeze to death ‘cuz you feel bad about waking me. You got feet like ice. Fingers, too. Man. C’mon, come here.”

They hadn’t ever actually slept together. It had just been late, neither of them had wanted to go too far too fast, but they had kissed and cuddled and talked on her bed, and fallen asleep. There hadn’t been any kind of proper planning. It was only natural that there would be some logistical issues. Scout apparently had a knack for this kind of thing, though, because he made a little hollow where she could curl up against his hip, with her head on his shoulder, and a hand resting on his chest. Most of her resting on his chest. Why did somebody who put out this kind of heat even need to take her blanket?

He kissed her on the forehead, once she’d settled in, buried his fingers gently in her hair, stroked her scalp. “You have a hard time fallin’ asleep?”

"Mmhmm."

"Always, or ‘cuz I’m here?"

It was getting less difficult by the moment, but she answered anyway. “Always. Since I was little.”

"S’rough." Scout was still playing with her hair, twining lazy, gentle circles at the base of her neck. His heartbeat seemed like it was pulsing warmth directly into her skin. "Well, maybe we could talk a bit, anyway, maybe that’ll help."

"Helping," she murmured. "Mmm, god you’re warm. How are you this warm?"

"Yeah. Well. I gotta metabolism like a hummingbird. Anyway, I ever tell you about that one time out at Sawmill…"

He probably had, but she didn’t hear him, she had dropped off to sleep in a heartbeat. In the morning, in spite of threatening not to, he made french toast.


End file.
